Visiting the Wagah Border Closing: Surreal Spectacle at the India-Pakistan Divide

Part of the Indian delegation at the Wagah Border Closing

Two grown men face off at sunset. Muscles tense. Faces locked. And the challenge? See who can launch their booted foot higher into the air.

Their uniforms are stately, ceremonial… until your eyes catch the hats: towering, fan-like explosions of color, transforming each soldier into a strutting, preening rooster.

Stadiums—yes, stadiums—on both sides of the border erupt in cheers, chanting their men to glory.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer absurdity, the ghost of Salvador Dalí floats in. He nods solemnly. Approves the whole thing with a surreal, mustachioed stamp of approval.

Because this bizarre, high-stepping theater unfolds every night at the Wagah border—the tense line between two bitter rivals, India and Pakistan, who have gone to war multiple times in the last 80 years.

When Family Fights

It’s one of the great tragedies of the modern world: two nations with a shared ancestry, shared cuisine, shared language roots, shared gestures, shared traffic chaos, and (apparently) a shared love of boot-swinging border theater… have also fought four wars, engaged in countless skirmishes, and built entire arsenals pointed directly at each other.

The modern versions of India and Pakistan were born in trauma. When British colonial rule came to an end in 1947, the partition of British India carved out a new Muslim-majority nation—Pakistan—separated from a secular-but-majority-Hindu India. It was an arbitrary, messy, heartbreaking process, and the wounds from that moment have never truly healed.

Since then, the two countries have fought four full-blown wars: in 1947, 1965, 1971, and 1999. The first two were largely focused on the territory of Kashmir, a stunning Himalayan region claimed by both sides. The fourth—Kargil in 1999—was more limited but no less dangerous, especially since by then both countries had nuclear weapons.

And it hasn’t just been war. There have been proxy conflicts, border standoffs, airstrikes, and a near-constant barrage of media-fueled nationalism on both sides. One misstep can spiral into escalation.

The irony in all of this? These countries still have more in common than not. Travel through the Punjab region, and you’ll find families split by the border, recipes that don’t care which side of the line they came from, and music that sounds hauntingly familiar whether it’s played in Lahore or Amritsar.

They’re family. Dysfunctional, estranged family—but family nonetheless. And like many families, the fights are often fiercest with those who mirror us most.

And yet, somehow, each night at the Wagah border crossing, a ceremony goes on—boots swinging, fans flaring, crowds cheering. Because nothing says “tense geopolitical standoff” quite like a perfectly choreographed high kick.

The Most Theatrical Border in the World (and Maybe the Most Troubling)

We almost didn’t go.

It was June in Amritsar, which means it was approximately the surface temperature of Mercury. Just walking to the corner shop for water felt like an act of heroism. So standing in a stadium-style metal and concrete amphitheater in full sun? In the late afternoon? Voluntarily?

Madness.

But I’m a political science professor. And something about being this close to the most famous border ceremony in the world without going felt like career malpractice. So we peeled ourselves off the hotel beds, ignored the quiet whisper of better judgment, and found a driver.

The taxi stand in front of our hotel had the usual swirl of drivers milling about. We negotiated a round-trip deal with one—he’d drive us to the Wagah border, wait, and then take us back after the ceremony. He gave us a polite smile, a soft "very hot today, sir," and off we went, roasting slowly in our own sweat.

The heat was stifling, but the security was even thicker.

There are few things in this world as colorful as an Indian crowd

Once we reached the border area, it was time for a full procession of pat-downs, checkpoints, and gender-separated lines. "Invasive" is the polite term. "Thorough" is the diplomatic one. "Why is he still patting me down?" was my internal monologue.

Eventually, we made it to the viewing area—foreigners get herded into a small section, facing the massive Indian stands that were already filling up with chanting, flag-waving nationals. On the other side of the gate, across the infamous border, we could see a much smaller crowd gathering on the Pakistani side. Still, they showed up.

Daughters 2 and 3 (the ones that aren't Indian) dancing with the crowd

The crowd on the Indian side was electric. Loud. Colorful. Energetic. Somewhere between a cricket final and a Bollywood fan rally. Flags waved. People danced. Bollywood beats blasted from the speakers. My daughters got swept up in the moment and danced with the women spinning in circles of sweat-soaked celebration. The rest of us just watched and wilted.

And then the energy shifted. Trumpets blared.

Two guards marched toward the border gate from the Indian side. They wore sharply creased khaki uniforms, embroidered crossbelts, white gloves, a generous draping of golden tinsel, and those surreal fan-like headdresses that turned their heads into stylized roosters. It was like military formal meets vintage marching band.

Those hats!

They were met by their counterparts from Pakistan, marching in from the other side in dark green uniforms, and equally flamboyant fan-hats. They faced each other with steely eyes and lifted boots.

And then the real kicking began.

These weren’t normal kicks. These were war ballet kicks. Weaponized Rockettes. Each man whipped his leg up over his head with theatrical violence, a sort of nationalistic yoga-meets-karate. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t casual. It was the international relations version of a peacock fight—aggressive, flamboyant, and very surreal.

The flexibility of hamstrings on both sides was impressive.

It would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t also been . . . unsettling.

After several rounds of high kicks and power stances, the flags were lowered. The gates slammed shut. And the guards beat a high-stepping retreat.

The ceremony was over. No shots fired. No direct threats made. But the message was clear. The line had been drawn. And it was drawn not in sand, but in stomped-down pride.

A cheering "fan"

And here’s the thing: if these two countries didn’t have such a tragic and violent history, it might have all just felt like a quirky bit of cross-border pageantry. A kind of cultural ritual gone delightfully theatrical. But knowing the wars that have been fought... knowing how many families were split by that line... knowing that there are people who benefit politically from keeping the fire of division burning?

It made me uneasy. Sad, even.

Visiting he Wagah Border Closing is meant to inspire national pride. And it does. But it also seems designed to make sure the line between “us” and “them” stays bold, loud, and kicked as high as possible.

And sometimes, because travel, you don’t just witness beauty or connection. You witness something raw. Something unresolved. Something meant not to bring us together—but to keep us apart.